This was a new trick to Ware, one he had never heard of, but one that he understood and respected immediately. He yielded to it judiciously, and managed to spin on his head before Jumbo could land on his chest.
Ware had more respect now for Jumbo, and decided to keep him on the defensive, especially as a bystander announced that the time was almost up.
Ware rushed the contest, and, after many failures, managed to secure a perfect Full-Nelson. Jumbo's position was such that there was no way for him to squirm out. He resisted until it seemed that his neck would break. In vain. His head was slowly forced under.
And now his shoulders began to follow, and he was rolling over on his back.
One shoulder is down.
The referee is on all fours, his cheek almost to the ground. He is watching for the meeting of those two shoulders upon the mat.
The Kingstonians have given up, and the Trojans have their cheers all ready.
And now the despairing Jumbo feels that his last minute has come. But just for the fraction of a second he sees that the cautious Ware is slightly changing his hold.
With a sudden, a terrific effort, he throws all his soul into his muscles—closes his arms like a vise on Ware's arms. The Nelson is broken, or weakened into uselessness. He draws his head into his shoulders as a turtle's head is drawn into its shell, whirls like lightning on the top of his head to his other shoulder, and on over, carrying the horrified Ware with him, plouncing the Trojan flat on his back, and plumping down on top of him.
And the excited referee went over on his back also, and kicked his heels foolishly in the air as he cried: